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  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    [mature]  All the violence that I swore, you can have back // Ivar
    #1
    I have a riddle for you: 

    What has four legs, two wings, holds all the colors of the rainbow, and can hold a grudge like a bitch? 

    If you guessed anything that wasn't me, you're wrong. 

    I had left with a cold heart, and that had lasted me a few days. But soon enough it had given way to something much more volatile. Anger. Was I so damaged that I was fit only to be kept on a high shelf, discarded when I no longer sat there prettily? No. I was no predator, did not hold the power of tooth and claw in my repertoire, but I have other weapons. 

    It was with this in mind that I prepared myself. Washed the dust of days from my flanks and preened the long feathers of my wings, put more effort into my appearance than I had in a long while. There was nothing to be done about the windswept witch knots in my hair, but I shook them out to hang straightly down my neck. Every trace of blackened blood was fastidiously removed, the cracks in my skin shimmering as white hot sparks traced their lines. 

    Looking into the mirror of a still tide pool, I was at last satisfied with my reflection. There was steely resolve etched into the brow of the mare looking back at me, and I forced her to soften the look into something more... well, soft. My purpose was known only to me, and that's how it would remain. 

    I did not pass by anyone familiar on my way past the bounds of the Cove, and so did not need to lie on my way out. Once the land opened up before me, my wings spread wide, catching the air and lifting me rapidly upward as my legs beat the wind at my feet. Cracks of thunder echoed in my ears, ominous in the cloudless autumn sky. 

    It was a long flight, the map of Beqanna unfolding beneath me like a fiery tapestry. It was a breathtaking sight, more so this time of year than at any other. As the island of Ischia crested my vision, a shiver travelled along my spine. 

    This place held many memories for me, most of them unpleasant. Briefly, I considered turning back. I could let this go, move on with my life. But that would mean accepting my scorn, and the wrongs that had been done against me. I was so tired of powerlessness. More than anything, I wanted to strike back at the one who had hurt me. I wanted to make him bleed. Loved or hated, all I would not tolerate was to be forgotten. 

    With these warlike thoughts loud in my head, I descended on the shore, gliding as much as possible to minimize the rumbles heralding me. I would make no secret of my leaving the island, but to accomplish my purpose, I did not want all eyes on me. 

    Finding the kelpie was not so difficult a task. Simply trace along the water ways, and look for the gleam of his scales, the glint of gold. Odds were he'd see me coming before I laid eyes on him. Ideal, I hadn't polished myself to gemstone brilliance for no reason. I found him. And greeted him with a smile when I found him, and a kiss that could only diplomatically be called polite. 

    "Hello, Ivar," I said with a gentle tip of my head, making rainbows dance on my skin. "It's long past time I thanked you properly for all you've done for me... don't you think?" My lips curled into a vicious smile, tail flicking suggestively against my hips. 

    @[Ivar]
    Reply
    #2
    It's been some time since Ivar had seen the opalescent Sabra, but it has been less time than that since her name had been spoken on Ischia. He'd been told she was dead and then risen again, an ability that Ivar is rather fond of. Isobell and Kylin have it, and Jhene had as well, though with the palomino mare the kelpie had finally found that even immortality has its limits.

    He is thinking of that as Sabra lands, and wonders  how many drownings it might take for the light to permanently leave those pretty blue eyes. It isn't a thought he dismisses uncomfortably, but he does dismiss it. She belongs to someone else, and while Ivar ignores most impediments, there are some boundaries that he is unwilling to cross.

    Such boundaries grow much smaller as the winged mare lands in the sand ahead of him, and smaller still as she greets him smelling very much of the Silver Cove and not at all of dragon.

    The piebald stallion's gaze flicks across Sabra's blue figure, caught by the suggestive flick of her tail. Ivar had categorized her nearly immediately as something he could not hunt upon their first encounter beside the River, and nothing has happened in the time between to change that.

    He might wonder about drowning her from time to time, but he wonders that about most creatures he comes across.

    Yet she greets him as though he has already begun the hunt, and the crash of the sea adds a thunder to the spark of her words as she thanks him. Ivar swallows, tasting autumn and the promise of rain, and takes a step closer to Sabra. His eyes do not yet flick across the horizon in a search for batlike wings, but rather trace the opalescent curves of her blue figure and then the pale pink feathers of her wings.

    Ivar has always had a soft spot for feathered wings.

    "It is," he agrees, but doesn't break the spell by being crass enough to ask what sort of thanks she might have in mind. Prey has been known to find of of its own accord in the past, and while this behavior is not what he has come to expect from Sabra, he has also never been too full to turn down a free meal.

    "Will you be thanking me now?" He asks with a tilt of his long-jawed head, amusement flickering in his golden eyes. "Or later?" He leans forward, unable to avoid tasting the glittering curve of her shoulder. Each touch is laced with lust that mirrors what he reads in her eyes, a quiet hypnotic command that she is unlikely to recognize as foreign. "Perhaps both?"

    @[Sabra]
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    #3
    Touches slip between us with with gentle ease, my body reacting suitably despite myself. His maw etched along my shoulder, drawing a light shiver from my skin as I considered his words, a smile of amusement playing on my lips. Warmth stirred in my belly, actual excitement throbbing along my spine. 

    It was a tell, even if he didn't know it. I would screw him, just for who he was. It didn't matter if he looked like a hippo, or beautiful as a god, or if I actually felt anything toward him. The lust suddenly sparking inside me was foreign, unexpected. Fake. 

    I wouldn't have noted it if it wasn't the complete opposite of how I'd been feeling but moments before. But it would make this easier. I chuckled softly, leaning into the sensation, leaning into him. "Now, if you're not otherwise engaged at the moment. Later... well. Let's see if you're any good first, shall we?" I purred, internally thanking him for the drops of power seeping into my skin. 

    My teeth scraped into his throat, muzzle twisting into the ropes of his mane to tug him gently closer into me. "Aren't you going to ask me what I'm doing here? Doing this?" I ventured softly, broad feathered wings slipping down my shoulders, letting sparks flow from my body to his as we brushed against each other. The promise of further friction was spoken wordlessly. My back was exposed now, pale white scars spreading like skeletal tree branches over my topline. It was a roadmap begging to be traveled. 

    I let him fill me with his scent, masculine musk twined with the salty odors of the sea. My own perfume mingled with it, brine and heather, rotting seaweed and ozone and my own sweet arousal. My teeth snapped in subtle aggression, biting into the flesh of his chest daringly. Would he run as Castile had, when I'd challenged his dominance with my own? I doubted it. Ivar... well. I suspected he would not back down, and may even enjoy the kind of challenge I was suggesting. This was, perhaps, going to be fun. 

    @[Ivar]
    Reply
    #4
    Whatever warning bells might have sounded at Sabra's uncharacteristic behavior have been entirely muffled by those same actions. The kelpie is a cautious creature, but he has never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth - especially not one so tempting as the winged mare. A better man might have weighed the cost of immediate pleasure against the burden of regret, but Ivar is all but incapable of contrition. The knowledge that she belongs to someone else is less important than the way she leans against him, the soft curve of her side tucked neatly into his own.

    He'd raised two of Castile's sons, says the small part of him that might feel remorse; the dragon surely wouldn't mind letting him borrow their mother for a while.

    She clearly wants to be borrowed, after all, and as she tugs him closer Ivar laughs and considers keeping her for longer. She's borne dragons, after all. Whose to say she might not bear kelpies as well? That thought is just as heady as the purr of Sabra's voice, and strong enough that he can ignore the unnatural spark of her parted wings. She is something different than she'd been; something he might not have chosen to hunt. His dislike of her new magic summons a frown for just an instant, but her questions distract him and he glances back into her pale eyes with a wicked smile.

    "No," he answers. "I gave up trying to understand women years ago." He smiles as he says it, the light in his golden eyes growing brighter as she nips at him with her dull teeth. Sabra is very much a stranger to him, he realizes.

    He's only ever found her weary from birth or beaten and bleeding in the past, but this sparking woman is a different sort of creature entirely. Is this what had drawn Castile to her, Ivar wonders? And if it had been, how could the dragon have left her go?

    It doesn't matter, the kelpie decides.

    She is his now.

    Faster than seems possible, he twists his head about. Too-long jaws snap around the softness of Sabra's throat, and Ivar is not careful about piercing her skin. He wants to hear the rapid increase in her heartbeat, the realization that she is in over her head, the delicious terror of an animal being hunted. He does not hold her long, for there are other things he craves as well. Everywhere his teeth touch her skin he presses hunger, desire, lust, and then his soft muzzle ghosts across her jaw, and each contact is heat and fervor and (because he can never help his nature) fear.

    The point of her withers receives a kiss of wantoness, but the lips that trace the myriad of scars down her spine are empty of anything but his own heat. The curve of her hips is thick with muscle and Ivar's mouth waters involuntarily. He is not immune to his own hyponotic sensations, after all. He considers it - tearing into that opalescent skin - but the water laps only at his knees and the spice of her arousal is a reminder of the one season in which he does not kill.

    "Tell me you want this," says the stallion who has forced the need for it into her mind. "Say it," he says as he brushes his muzzle against the base of her sunrise tail. The blood is so near the surface here; he can taste it even through her heady arousal. No, he reminds himself, no. It is nearly futile, and he distracts himself with something he has not tried before. Stepping forward, he presses his chest against her hindquarters and presses the command to climax into her mind.

    @[Sabra]
    well that was pretty spicy for 9 in the morning o.0
    Reply
    #5
    All sense of caution had fled in the time since my feet had landed on the island. It had of course, been helped along by the power dripping between our skins, but I wasn't certain how much was his doing. Certainly, it felt good to be touched like this again. 
    It had been far too long since my skin had been caressed with such reverence, and when he responds to my question so lightly, I can't repress the conspiratual smile on my lips. Smart man, not asking questions. It was easier that way, for both of them. 
    Fast as thought, he reacted to her overture, jagged maw reaching, snapping on my skin. My breath thins as my blood thrums through the veins he's come so close to severing. Still as stone, I can feel my own hot ichor trickling down the graceful curve of my neck, staining the pale blue with gleaming crimson. Beautiful. There was beauty in destruction, my own included. But this was just foreplay. Excitement overshadowed any fear I might have felt at the razor ache in my throat, and then the pressure is gone. 
    His mouth travels my body, teeth and lips drawing sharp pain laced with heady arousal. Wanton need begins to pulse through my body where he grazes, radiating across my skin like sunshine. Im bleeding now from a dozen small wounds, and it only adds to my thrill. My teeth, blunt as they are, chase along his own form. Small, bruising bites sink along his patterned skin, matching him nip for nip. 
    A shiver of something almost like fear accentuates all else, perhaps not to the effect he was seeking. What did I have to fear? Death had no hold over me, pain was just a sensation to be experienced like any other. I only sank my dull teeth deeper into his back, responding to pain with more of the like.
    At last it seems our flirtation must evolve, and another shiver runs the length of me as he guides himself down my body. Anticipation hangs thick in the air as I wait for him to get on with things, to use me like I'd been expecting. I can feel his breath on my spine, the bones of my tail twitching and lifting off their own accord as he asks for my need. 
    Surprisingly, he has it. "Oh, yes," I breath, "I want this, I want you." And a background awareness in my mind is surprised that this is true. Im saved from thinking on this further by the pressure of his broad chest against my heat. I've hardly got time to register this when I feel a shaft of liquid heat pierce the very center of me, rippling out into waves of electric stimulation. A quickly bitten off scream echoes from my lips as my body reacts to the pulse. I have imploded, I'm sure of it. Every nerve on sizzling, my body stiffening with the force of the orgasm rolling through it. Never had I experienced a climax like that. 
    It ebbed slowly, leaving me dizzy and tingling, and seeping damp from my still throbbing channel. Light whimpers of pleasure drop from my lips, hot eyed gaze rolling back to the kelpie. He had hardly touched me, had not pressed his weight against my back and filled me with his length, and yet I stood here trembling in his sight. 

    The bits of sky that were my eyes twinkled glassily as a husky laugh fluttered out. "Alright, Kelpie. You've made your point. Now do it for real." I underscored the statement with a slight shifting of stance, well and truly exposing myself to him. Wings flirted low slung, leaving him plenty of room at my sides to grasp and hold. I needed him inside me more than I'd needed anything, and I knew sure as anything that he knew it. 
    @[Ivar]
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    #6
    The warm air around them grows thick with the coppery scent of blood, and it rests as heavy on the kelpie’s tongue as he tastes his way along the opalescent mare. The salt air brushes the hair from his eyes, and the shiver of fear that runs down her spine sends a matching thrill through the kelpie’s own body, spurred on by the bruising bites of Sabras’ teeth along his scaled sides. Sabra is not kelpie but she acts as bold as one, digging her dull teeth into the ridge of his scaled spine as though she might mark him the same way he does her. It delights him – is the inspiration for his command – but she bites off a scream that he had been longing to hear.

    Her whimpers afterward are nearly enough to appease him, but he grins rather than immediately heed her request. He tilts his head with a wicked grin, waits just long enough that she might ask again, and then takes action. He fits atops her easily, and buries the groan of their initial coupling into her sunset mane. The kelpie is not gentle as he has his way with her, but he does not rip at her neck as he might have beneath the water. They are small bites only, here and there as he thrusts until at last his own climax spurs one bite harder than the rest, a deep bite into the thick muscle of her shoulder. He cannot help himself; she is at once wanton and wary, the heady combination that his kind have pursued since the dawn of creation.

    He releases the mouthful of flesh only as he slides off her, unable to keep from licking at the blood that lines his pale mouth. It doesn’t hurt, he presses into her mind, it doesn’t hurt too much. Caution had left him for a moment, but he reigns in the literal hunger. Later, he tells himself; for there will certainly be a later.

    Ivar streaks her blue cheek with blood as he slides his muzzle along it, far gentler than he had been in the moments earlier.

    “Tell me why you’re here,” he says before he pulls away, the command as infused in his touch as it is in his voice. He had not wanted to know earlier, not when the answer might have interfered with what he intended, but for all his animalistic hunger, Ivar is no fool. He’s been burnt once by the piebald dragon, and suspects he might soon be again. It was worth it, he decides, and reaches forward again to paint a streak along her other cheek as he presses another seed of desire into the blue-eyed mare.

    @[Sabra]
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